


Cold Turkey

by RedChucks



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Dan and Jones sorting themselves out, post-series.Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

“Fine,” Dan said with the most aggressive shrug Jones thought he’d ever seen the man give, flicking his empty beer can across the small, grubby living space.

Jones, who had been ready to fight things out for at least a half hour was caught off balance by Dan’s uncharacteristic agreement, especially when it was couched in aggressive body language and the beginnings of a wolfish grin. Jones didn’t trust him, but he wasn’t about to back down, not this time.

“For real?” he asked skeptically, eyes narrowing. “ ‘Cos I had a whole speech, mate, complete with dot points and shit,” he waved the sheet of scribbled notes vaguely, “and now you’re just telling me it’s fine? You, Dan Ashcroft, who just this second finished the last can of lager in the house, are saying you are completely ‘fine’ with me asking you to give up booze? Are you shitting me? Is Barley about to jump out and shove a camera in my face and say I’ve been ‘Trash-pranked’?”

Dan snorted.

“Don’t use that arse-hat’s name in this house. And no,” he said gruffly, letting the grin widen beneath the scruff of his beard. “I’m not shitting you, Jones. You’re right. I agree to give up booze, in all its forms. I shouldn’t have drank what we had left, but,” he raised a finger in warning to stop Jones from running his mouth off.

“There’s a catch. If I’m giving up my vice, then you are too.”

It was a trap, Jones knew it was from the way Dan was looking at him, like he guessed a wolf might look at a shrew, but he didn’t know exactly how it was a trap yet, and that was more than a little terrifying.

“Mate, I,” Jones hesitated, “I don’t drink alcohol. You know that right? It messes with the beats and makes the spoon o’ music too soggy to feed the sound, yeah?”

“You mean you’re a cheap fucking date,” Dan gruffed. “And you talk shit. Soggy spoon is a bad metaphor.”

“It’s an intriguing metaphor,” Jones countered cheekily, with a waggle of his eyebrows, but now Dan was the one determined not to back down.

“It’s beside the point. I know you’re not the one with the booze problem. I know that’s me. I got that drilled in to me in the hospital. But if I’m giving it up, you’re giving up,” he paused for effect despite himself, “caffeine.”

“WHAT?!”

“Namely coffee,” Dan continued over the top of Jones’ angry squawk. “But I’m including other caffeinated drinks as well, like Coke and energy drinks and that damn double strength tea you keep in the back of the cupboard for ‘emergencies’.”

“No!”

Dan grinned up at the other man, knowing he was winning and loving it.

“Yes. That’s the deal. If I’m doing this then so are you.”

Jones whined, slouching his spine and swinging his arms like a petulant child but it only made Dan more determined.

“Dan,” Jones pouted. “This ain’t fair. This is supposed to be about you, not me. Why you doing this?”

Dan slouched back on the ratty sofa and folded his arms, careful not to bump his cast as he did so. He would have crossed his ankles too if it weren’t for the casts on those but despite the plaster he still managed to achieve a not-to-be-argued-with demeanour and he had a good reason for it. Besides, if Jones didn’t have a problem he would have argued rather than pouted.

“The psych at the hospital had a chat with me about anxiety,” he said, keeping his eyes focused on his bare toes poking out the end of his left cast.

He could talk about this, he needed to talk about this, but he could only do that if he didn’t have to deal with eye contact at the same time. A few meters away Jones was avoiding eye contact too, glaring at an old stain on the carpet that neither of them had ever taken responsibility for. Jones’ own bare feet were digging in to the carpet, his heels hidden in the tattered ends of his too-long jeans and toes pointing inwards, making him look like a scolded child. Dan didn’t want to to be a parent but he’d done enough damage by being reckless and childish and knew it was time to be an adult.

“Actually he had several chats with me about it,” Dan said with a little more confidence, scratching at his chin. Jones wasn’t the only one who’d had a speech prepared. “Because you know, I thought I understood anxiety and panic attacks. I’ve seen enough.”

Jones shuffled uncomfortably at that jibe and Dan felt a pang of guilt at causing him discomfort, but it needed to be done.

“But apparently I didn’t know a lot. Apparently when I shut down and,” Dan huffed out a breath through his nose, “and can’t process things and feel... feel like I’m dying and can’t breathe and like I’m not even the person in control of my own damn skin...” he took a moment to breathe before the sensations took him over. “Apparently that’s a panic attack too. My brain doesn’t choose fight or flight. It goes for freeze. And it comes out of nowhere. The anxiety, that’s always there in the background,” from the corner of his eye he saw Jones nod in agreement, confirming what he’d known for a while but never confronted until now, “and the booze... doesn’t do it any good. But the panic attacks, they’re a mess all of their own. And they need to stop.”

He half expected Jones to argue with him then but wasn’t surprised when he looked up and instead saw him tugging at his streaked hair, cheeks pink and breath coming out harsh through his nose. It was unlikely he’d be able to diffuse the attack that Jones was now dealing with but he had to try and he had to try and get his message through before the moment was lost. If anything this proved his point. Jones was always on edge these days, jittery and anxious and tightly strung. He’d been a mess when he’d finally come to visit Dan in the hospital and Claire had confirmed that his “annoying little dj” wasn’t sleeping at all.

As Jones raised his other hand to join the first in pulling at his hair, trying to ground himself and control the pain inside his skull by causing pain outside of it, Dan’s eyes were drawn to the skin revealed by the movement of his arms. Jones never really carried a lot of extra weight but his hip bones were looking particularly sharp and exposed, like Jones had lost weight at the same rate Dan’s beer belly had expanded. It was one thing to live on nervous energy and sugary coffee and beats but Jones looked more like he wasn’t really living at all any more, fueled by anxiety and surviving on caffeine. Something had to give and Dan didn’t want it to Jones’s sanity, or their relationship.

“Jones,” he said more softly, finally managing to bring his eyes up to catch Jones’ and beckon him over to the sofa, “love, please. Do you know what I’m telling you? You’re right. I need to quit the booze, and you asked me to and that’s massive, Jones. And you’re right, you and the psych and the doctor. And I shouldn’t’ve come home and downed all the beer we had but at least that means I’ve got no excuse not to start right now. But if I’m getting well I’m sure as hell not doing it alone. I want you to get better too.”

Jones crossed slowly to the sofa and sat heavily beside Dan, pressing him shivering body firmly against Dan’s side like a cat as he attempted to breathe through the anxiety. They had never been sentimental types, had never been big on public displays of affection, had never bothered to define their relationship because words were stupid and getting emotional was embarrassing. They had always just drifted through life together, messing up and finding new lows to strive for, bound together by their common hate of almost everyone - at least that was what the world saw - but mostly drawn together though a shared understanding and shared struggle.

Well, thought Dan, pulling himself back from a train of thought that was getting too flowery for his liking, now it was time to share a new struggle.

“Is coffee really that bad?” Jones mumbled eventually, the shaking of his body finally receding.

“Yeah,” Dan answered ruefully. “It’s not great. Especially in the quantities you imbibe.”

“Damn. You still interested in my list?” Jones waved his piece of paper in front of Dan’s face. “I spent ages on it. On all the ways booze is killin’ you. I was well thoughtful.”

“Sure,” Dan said, taking the list from Jones’ grasp and putting it carefully in his shirt pocket. “It’ll help me stay on track if I get tempted to sneak off the wagon. So,” he turned and pressed a kiss to Jones’ hair, “are we doing this thing?”

“Yeah,” Jones said solemnly. “You give up the grog and I’ll...” he braced himself. “I’ll give up coffee.”

“Deal,” Dan agreed.

Beside him Jones sighed and shook his head.

“This was not how this intervention was supposed to go. I just wanted to stop you killing your liver and that, doing dumb shit when you were under the influence. You weren’t supposed to come at me with facts.”

“Yeah well, that’s just the kind of man I am. They call me the fact ninja.”

They chuckled in sync and Dan brought his arm up and around to pull Jones in to a tight hug. He wasn’t about to admit that he had been on the verge of announcing to Jones that he was giving up alcohol. Jones would try to weasel out of their agreement if he did that. Nope, they were in this together and Dan was determined to succeed. He wasn’t one of life’s winners but he was damned well going to win at this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning that there is vomiting in this bit.

Jones tried to take another sip and retched, turning away from the steaming mug and coughing furiously. Dan knew exactly how he felt about the muck they were both trying to drink and Claire’s presence wasn’t helping at all.

“It’s just tea, Jones,” she told him with a shake of her head.

“Tastes like grass,” was Jones’ croaked reply but he brought the mug to his lips again all the same, determined to prove that he couldn’t be beaten by a non-caffeinated beverage.

Dan went to do the same but stopped at the sound of Jones retching again and put the drink down in favour of watching Jones push off from the table and begin to pace around the tiny kitchen. It was day two and they were both feeling the strain, especially since Dan had decided to throw his cigs in the toilet, determined to go for a complete detox. 

“It is grass,” Dan grumbled in to his mug of wheatgrass tea, hating it for being the opposite of all that was good in the world. 

“It’s an acquired taste,” Claire offered with little sympathy. “I actually quite like it.”

“Nobody likes this swill, Claire,” Dan told her. “They just lie to themselves every time they drink it until they’ve fooled themselves in to thinking they like it in order to more successfully shame those who refuse.”

Claire scoffed and began giving Dan an informed argument for why his paranoid theory was ridiculous but Dan wasn’t listening. He was watching Jones as he paced around the tight space. The poor man was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot behind puffy lids and dark bags and his stubble was nearly thick enough to rival Dan’s. 

The day before, their first day with no booze or coffee, had been rough. Even in hospital Dan had bullied Ned in to bringing him alcohol and it had been months since Dan had made it to midday without a drink, but his initial symptoms hadn’t kicked in until after lunch. Jones’ withdrawal symptoms had surfaced much earlier. His body was used to starting the day with coffee, whether he’d been to bed or not, and when that didn’t happen the nausea had kept Jones chained to the toilet bowl for the rest of the day. 

Dan had felt dizzy, nauseous and had started sweating like it was high summer but he’d kept his lunch in his stomach, even if all he’d managed to eat was a slice of dry toast, Jones hadn’t been so lucky and the guilt of it had gnawed at Dan horribly. He hadn’t expected Jones’ body to struggle so much, just from a lack of caffeine, had thought he’d be the one suffering worse and yeah, his head was spinning and he felt like shit, but Jones seemed to have it worse. 

The poor man had cursed him out with impressive creativity whenever Dan hobbled in to the bathroom with a fresh glass and Dan had naively told him, perched on the edge of the tub so he could rub Jones’ back awkwardly, that they would get through it, that this was the worst of it and it would be over soon.

He hadn’t been prepared for the chest pain that had hit him in the evening and his struggle to try and figure out whether it was anxiety, withdrawals, or genuine heart pain, brought on an anxiety attack worse than he’d experienced in a long time. He couldn’t move, couldn’t function, had the desperate desire to cry or scream but couldn’t even open his mouth or blink. The only words his brain could form were ‘I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die’ and the urge to vomit was now crawling up his throat like a clown out of a drain.

Somewhere off to his right the door banged open and then shut and Dan’s panic increased at the thought of being seen in such a state by whoever had decided to drop by, at knowing he had no way to defend or protect himself, or hide from an intruder.

Seeing Claire enter the house alone didn’t make Dan feel worse but he didn’t feel any better, especially when she nodded at him nervously and walked by without a word. She’d been conspicuously absent when Dan came home from the hospital and Dan suspected she’d been staying with Barley. He wanted to talk to her, to beg for help, to say hello, but his body just wouldn’t obey and it took all of his concentration to begin to get his breathing under control and force the acid back down to his stomach.

“What the hell!”

His body jolted at Claire’s exclamation but couldn’t otherwise move, knew there wasn’t much point in trying to get to her when he could already hear her storming back. 

“What the hell, Dan,” she repeated when she reappeared in the living room doorway. “You’re home for a day and what? You and Jones decide to get trashed? What did you two take?”

Dan simply continued to breathe, deep and even, and watched as Claire’s expression turned from one of anger to confusion to concern before she crossed the room to kneel in front of her older brother.

“Dan?” 

“Claire,” Dan said shakily. 

“Dan, what did you take?”

Slowly, and with a great deal of embarrassment, Dan explained the situation, though he skated over the details of Jones’ anxiety. It was one thing to tell his sister about his own newly diagnosed panic disorder, but telling her about Jones’, when he and Claire weren’t really friends, just didn’t sit well with him. Claire had been satisfied with hearing Dan’s own resolve to go dry and it had actually been as close to a moment of sibling bonding as he could remember them having. 

“Look,” Claire said, with a tearful edge to her voice after a fair amount of time had past. “I really only stopped off to grab some clean clothes and say hi. I’m staying with my girlfriend, Pru. D’you remember her? From uni? We ran in to each other the other day and, well... Anyway, I’m heading back out again, but I can come round tomorrow and bring you some things if you like? Like, things to help with a detox, I mean.” 

Dan had nodded and thanked her and waited until he heard her leave before struggling to his feet and limping to the bathroom, cursing his crutches, to see what had made Claire so furious when she’d first arrived. It stank for a start, and Dan flicked on the exhaust fan to try and clear the acidic smell of sick, looking around the seemingly empty room. Jones was no longer slumped over the toilet and it took Dan a moment to find him, sitting with his chin on his knees and his messy hair hiding his face, huddled in the corner of the yellowing bath tub behind the door.

It had been a long night for both of them, a night which ended with Dan lying sleepless in bath, imagining patterns and faces in the mildew stains on the walls, and Jones passed out on the floor, which was where Claire found them, tutting and bullying them out to the kitchen to try the tea she’d brought for them. Which was where they were now, though the tea was mostly undrunk. 

“God, I feel like shit in a bin,” Jones groaned, bracing himself over the sink. “Dan you said this was supposed to make me better. You lied, you fuck. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying, Jones,” Dan replied in a tone that even he thought sounded like death and completely unconvincing. 

“Are you sure you’re just detoxing from coffee?” Claire asked, looking at him suspiciously, and not noticing the embarrassed red flush that sprang to Jones’ cheeks as he nodded, his eyes focused on the empty sink. “Only you’re acting like you’re worse off than Dan and he’s a fucking alcoholic. How much coffee do you drink in a day?”

“In a day?” 

“In a twenty-four hours then,” Claire acceded with a roll of her eyes.

Dan glared at her but didn’t say anything, he didn’t want to miss Jones’ answer.

“In twenty-four hours maybe, maybe twelve? Fifteen? Sometimes it’s a double shot.” 

“Shit,” Claire whispered and Dan had to agree. 

He’d known it was bad but hadn’t quite understood the extent of Jones’ coffee addiction or how much he used it as a crutch. 

On the nights when they’d actually made it to a bed to fuck and the rare occasions when Jones decided to actually sleep when they were done, he’d been the most restless sleeper Dan had ever known, kicking and tossing and mumbling for hours and never actually getting any decent rest. Dan was starting to wonder how much of it was the caffein and how much of it was underlying anxiety and insomnia. It was hard to get his head around. He wasn’t good at this stuff, at friendship, at being someones support person, at being sober, but he did know that Claire’s presence wasn’t really helping. 

He considered just telling her to fuck off but couldn’t make himself do it. He wasn’t so brave when he was sober and the tightness in his chest just kept on getting worse and he wasn’t sure that Jones would be able to cope if he went off the rails right now.  
When they’d made the decision to go cold turkey it had seemed like a good decision, the right thing to do, and even after the previous night and the vomiting and the freezing panic, he’d thought they could make it... but now. He just felt sick. And sweaty. And really, really sick. 

He hobbled across the room, ignoring the biting pain in his legs as he lunged for the sink, shoving Jones aside as his stomach heaved violently. Claire tutted and muttered that they were a pair of drama queens and Dan wanted to bite back with a cutting insult but the cramping of his stomach made him groan instead and heave in to the sink. He was aware that Jones was sitting on the floor sobbing in to the kitchen bin and that Claire had walked away, but most of his mind was occupied by the headache that had built in his head from a painful throbbing to brain curdling roar.

Jones was right, getting better had been a lie, he should never have tried to act like an adult, they should have stayed as they were in ignorant bliss. Now they were both going to die.

“You’re not dying, Dan,” Claire said kindly, though with more humour in her voice than Dan thought was appropriate when dealing with her dying brother and his unconventionally attractive, dying lover/date-mate/housemate/human. 

She gently laid a wet face cloth on the back of his neck and a glass of fresh water on the counter by his hand before moving to do the same for Jones and Dan heard her give him the same reassurance. Dan wondered how badly she would feel in the morning when she found them both dead from lack of alcohol and caffeine. And then wondered how many of his recent thoughts he’d actually spoken aloud when he heard Claire snicker.

“I’m staying here tonight, nimrod. To make sure neither of you chokes on your own sick. But you won’t die for lack of beer, Dan. Truly. And Jones, idiot that he is, won’t die from giving up caffeine. Trust me. I’m proud of you.”

The last words were spoken with a little less acid and a lot more love and Dan wished he could hug her and thank her properly, but figured she wouldn’t appreciate a puke stained embrace and settled for a mumbled, “Thanks, Claire,” with his head still firmly over the sink.

His sister was proud of him, which was a strange and new and felt good, even when his body and brain felt terrible. Claire was on his side, Jones was still, hopefully, on his side. Maybe he could beat this thing after all.


	3. Chapter 3

By the evening of day four Jones was feeling marginally better, keeping down water and crackers - he’d even showered - though the headache behind his eyes was still obvious to Claire. It would have been obvious to Dan as well if he weren’t wrapped in every blanket they owned and shivering worse than one of Shackleton’s unfortunate travel companions. Claire wasn’t sure how she’d become their nurse maid, she didn’t like it, but she really hadn’t wanted to leave them in such a pitiful state, not when there was a remote chance that they really could drown in their own vomit.

She hadn’t really believed that Jones wasn’t coming down from more than just caffeine at first, but she’d searched the house and all she’d found was a little pot stashed at the back of the tea cupboard. At that point all she’d wanted to do was make herself a cup of strong coffee to clear the fog from her brain and it had taken far too much willpower to instead remove the jar of cheap coffee and bin it. She’d considered tipping it down the sink but Jones would be able to smell it, and that would’ve just been cruel. He really was doing well, though he was jittery and pale, and Claire was secretly hoping that a decaffeinated Jones would be slightly easier to live with. Or quieter at least. He hadn’t touched his decks in days and was keeping his headphones firmly clamped over his ears.

Dan on the other hand had started hollering at them both that he needed something to drink, in between yelling that the walls were made of spiders and the wind was trying to talk to him. Claire was tempted to call an ambulance or just drag him in to the hospital by his ear but Jones probably wouldn’t let her. She glanced again at where Jones was sitting, slouched against the fridge, glaring at the kettle. He had been protective to a fault for most of the day, telling Claire that they just had to wait it out, that it was a normal part of the process. He’d said it with conviction but Claire was still suspicious, especially since he’d suddenly cooled on Dan’s detox.

Dan had spent the past hour bugging them both for beer, but Jones had refused, citing a grubby sheet of paper that he pulled from Dan’s own breast pocket. Dan had started begging after that and when that didn’t work he’d done what he’d always done: he resorted to petty insults. Namely insults about Claire’s arms and Jones’ thighs. She wasn’t sure how Dan could possibly know that Jones had thigh jiggle or that he was self-conscious about it but it seemed to hit Jones hard, his cheeks had flamed red as he left the living room and he’d refused to answer any of Dan’s calls after that. 

And now they were both in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, trying to pretend the whole situation wasn’t horrifically awkward. Claire considered saying nothing and waiting for Jones to talk to her but she’d never been any good at patience and Jones had never been much of a talker.

“You should try any eat something, Jones,” she said, raising her voice above what ever music he was probably blasting at his poor, damaged eardrums.

He took the headphones off slowly, moving like he was barely awake, and Claire caught a few bars of something with far less bass than she’d expected. He turned to look at her, eyes red rimmed, though whether it was from exhaustion or emotion, she wasn’t sure, and blinked several times before responding, testing Claire’s frayed patience to its limit.

“I’ve never been a big fan of food.”

“Well you still should. You look like a skeleton.”

Jones laughed at that, slow and soft with his face turned away.

“Not really. Still got thighs of thunder according to your big brother.”

“Dan’s a twat,” Claire snapped. “Your thighs are fine, same as my arms. He’s just an immature, little...”

“Twat?”

“Exactly,” Claire told him, folding her arms and shooting Jones a small smile. “I don’t know why you’re even friends with him, or why you care about what he thinks of you, or why you care about his getting sober - not that I’m not pleased he’s actually trying to do it - but it’s not your problem, Jones. He’s just your housemate. If it’d been me I would’ve kicked him out on his arse.”

“No you wouldn’t’ve,” Jones told her. “You’re a right bleeding heart, Claire Ashcroft and you know it.”

“Maybe,” Claire shrugged. “But what about you? Why do you put up with him?”

“Well, it’s a funny thing.” 

Jones rubbed the back of his neck and yawned until his jaw cracked. His eyes were heavy and Claire wondered if he regretted giving up what was apparently the only thing he put in his skinny body. Mostly though she was curious to hear why he really did put up with her arsehole brother. He had to be getting something out of the friendship because it sure as hell wasn’t food or affection or his share of the rent.

“I could make you a sandwich,” she offered but Jones shook his head. “Then tell me. Why’s it a funny thing?”

“Well,” Claire tried not to become too frustrated at how slowly a caffeine-free Jones spoke. She’d hated him when he’d been a hyperactive motor mouth so she couldn’t exactly get her angst on because he was finally slowing down to normal human levels. “Well, the thing is, you know your friend, Pru?”

“My girlfriend Pru?” Claire raised her eyebrows. 

She was still waiting for one of them to react to the fact but so far both Dan and Jones had taken her non-announcement so much in stride that she wasn’t entirely sure they’d understood.

“Yeah,” Jones nodded, his head moving like it was too heavy for his neck. “Yeah, well. You two’ve only been together a week or so, right? But you already know what... what you are to one another. You know you care about each other, that you like spending time together, laughing, kissin’, doing all that girlfriend... couple type stuff.”

“Yeah, Jones,” Claire said quietly, feeling the pieces slot together but not sure how to continue.

“But, I mean, that sort of thing, it ain’t that important, is it? You don’t always need words and that, when you know how you feel, right? And I feel... a lot... about Dan. And I don’t want him to die a drunk, old before his time.”

There was more there, Claire knew, a story or trauma, something that her brain, trained to see narratives in backstories, was intrigued by, but she had no desire to push just then. Even though his words had been disjointed and a little slurred with emotion Claire knew she’d been made keeper of a guarded secret, especially meaningful given how little she and Jones had spoken or interacted before now. She didn’t want to try her luck, or damage the tenuous friendship forming between them.

“I’m going to make you that sandwich,” see said eventually, her voice sounding odd in the dim, quiet, little kitchen. “And a cup of chamomile tea. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing the panic erupt on his face. “It’s nice. Much nicer than the wheatgrass. And it’ll help you sleep.”

“Cheers, Claire, I-”

“Jones!” Dan called pitifully from the other room but instead of a scowl, Jones’ face softened. “Jones, I’m sorry. I was being a dick. But can I have a drink, please? Of water? I feel like I’ve swallowed a wasps’ nest and their attacking me from the inside!”

Jones grinned and began to crawl across the kitchen floor toward the living room, moving slow and pushing his water glass along with him, looking awkward as hell but laughing breathily as he went.

“Wasps’ nest? How does he know what that feels like? He eat many wasp nests when you were nippers, Claire? Wonder what they taste like, wasps? Like caramel and playground bins, I reckon. Ah, he’s a lovable nutter your brother.”

Claire watched him go in bemusement. He was an odd creature but maybe that was why he could put up with Dan, and why Dan had fallen for him. Because there was no doubt in her mind now that Dan and Jones meant ‘something’ to each other. They were cleaning themselves up together and that was something as well. Dan wasn’t one of life’s winners, and Jones didn’t seem to even be in the game, but if they could make it through the next few days Claire thought they might just have a chance at winning their lives back.


	4. Chapter 4

Jones stood on the cusp between the kitchen and the living room, rocking on his heels as he considered how much had changed over the last week. It felt longer but it really had been only a week since he’d stood right there, petitioning Dan to chuck in the booze and make a go of healthy living. He hadn’t expected Dan to turn the tables on him, hadn’t anticipated spending three days vomiting his guts up as a result of caffein withdrawal. He had never, even in him most mundane dreams, imagined that cutting coffee out of his life would do this to him, but there was no way in hell he was going to go back. He never wanted to detox like that again, not for anything, and he was actually feeling better which he hadn’t actually believed would happen.

His fingernails hadn’t fared well though. He’d basically substituted coffee for nail biting and Claire had slapped his hands away from his mouth so many times there was almost as much damage to them as there was to his nails, almost. The ones he’d bitten to the quick had plasters on them and Claire had coated the others in foul tasting glittery polish in an effort to keep them intact. Jones had forgotten he owned that particular polish and his main motivation to regrow his nails now was so he could decorate all of his nails in blood red glitter. 

He wasn’t sure whether Dan had any goals or things that were motivating him to push on through, they hadn’t spoken a whole lot in the last few days, but Jones really hoped he did.

It was hard to tell whether Dan was feeling better mentally, or whether it was too soon to see an improvement in his anxiety and panic attacks. Sometimes Jones stressed that Dan was in the midst of an attack, when he began to shake and rock and was completely unresponsive to Jones’ voice. Which didn’t help Jones’ own mental health in any way. He already hated himself for not being aware of Dan’s panic disorder, for being too wrapped up in his own stuff to notice what was going on in the life of one of the only people in the world he genuinely liked. 

He hadn’t even known about Yeah? forcing Dan in to wanking the damned builder until days after the fact and he hadn’t had any idea how he was supposed to react. Dan was self-destructive by nature and he’d acted like he expected Jones to blow up and kick him out of the house when he walked in and presented Jones with the draft of his article about ‘Straight-on-Straight Gay Action’. Jones had mostly been confused by the insinuation that Dan was straight and hadn’t really wanted to talk about any of it, or deal with any consequences the way any proper adult would. 

He’d just lost his job at the salon, or rather been told that he could still sweep up but they were hiring someone new to lay down the beats, and had spent the day pacing the house, hitting the switch on the kettle every time he passed and drinking even more than he normally would, trying to create music but unable to make anything sound good. He’d been fuming, humiliated, and desperate to unload it all to Dan, but when Dan finally got in his mood had been so dark, and the article so disturbing, that Jones hadn’t been able to talk about his own problems. When Dan was down and out it was Jones who raised him back up. 

It hadn’t really worked of course. He’d made cheerful, malleus mashing noise until Dan had finally crashed on the couch, and then passed out himself, sleeping so heavy for a change he didn’t even hear Dan leave the next day. He’d never slept through Dan leaving before but suddenly he had nothing to wake up to and everything felt a bit shit and he didn’t know if Dan really did want to be around him anymore. 

He didn’t know much of anything it seemed. He didn’t know if Dan wanted to be with him, he didn’t know if he even had a relationship with Dan at all, and he didn’t know whether Dan even liked him let alone felt the same way he did. He didn’t know whether he had ever been any good at making music. Not when living swabs of dick cheese like Nathan Barley were getting all the work, taking the gigs that had been promised to Jones and turning everything he loved, even the innocent call-and-response, in to tone-deaf, rich boy shit. Except maybe it was Jones who had always been shit because Barley’s face was everywhere, while Jones’ face was only ever in his own damn house. He just didn’t know anymore, didn’t know anything. And worst right now, he didn’t know if any of what they’d done over the last week had been worth it. 

The panic attacks hadn’t gone away, the anxiety was still there, he still felt fucking jittery, still couldn’t sleep properly and he was still pretty sure that everyone hated him. Yeah, he’d managed to go two whole days without an attack, which was an improvement, but Jones didn’t expect it to last. Nothing had ever worked and he’d bet money he didn’t have that nothing ever would. Coffee had been a way to keep sleep away, of putting off the hours of lying in bed unable to get there, and the nightmares and restless, painful legs that ruined it when he finally did manage it. It was better to just stay up and keep moving until he literally passed out and now he was scared that he’d never sleep again, no matter how much tea Claire made for him.

And now... and now he couldn’t tell whether Dan was sleeping, silently freaking, or just faking sleep to make Jones go away. He turned and walked back to the kitchen, moving to the kettle and flicking the switch on automatically, then hating himself for it when he realised what he’d done. He looked dubiously at the jar of decaf Claire had brought around. He hated it for being such a poser, for being so close to what he wanted but not being right at all. He hated it because he wanted it and that probably meant he wasn’t as over his need for caffeine as he wished he was, and because -

The sudden pain in his chest, like a wrecking ball swinging in to his sternum, hit so fast that Jones barely stayed on his feet. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, and the tears started before he even had a chance to register that it was a panic attack and suddenly he was trapped. He knew he was sobbing, was vaguely aware that his hands were pulling at his hair too hard and his knees hurt. Why did his knees hurt? When had he fallen? Oh god.

He was failing. He was a crying, ugly mess, useless and unemployed and a waste, a waste, a waste.  
Time never seemed to make sense when he was in the thrall of the panic but it seemed he’d been stuck in the intense cyclone of emotions, trying to ground himself, for too long, for hours, before there were suddenly arms around him. At first he questioned whether they were real but then long, slender fingers squeezed his arms, digging in to his biceps hard enough to jolt his mind and ground him back in reality.

“Jones.” Dan’s voice was a hoarse whisper, dry and barely audible, but his breath by Jones’ ear was warm and so painfully comforting. “Jones come back, come back now, love. Breathe for me now. Breathe, breathe, breathe.”

Jones shook his head, feeling like an overtired child unable to verbalise his feelings but Dan didn’t stop, and didn’t let go, just kept rocking him and reminding him to breathe slow and steady, not caring that Jones’ hot tears were wetting both their cheeks and probably ruining Dan’s cast. 

“... but when I told them I had a girlfriend they didn’t so much as shrug and I thought they were just dense but then I realised that it’s actually because they’re-”

Jones had been aware of someone entering the house, had heard Claire’s voice and the voice of someone else, both coming closer, moving slowly through the house toward the kitchen, but at first he didn’t realise what that meant. Now suddenly being seen in this state, by a stranger and someone who he still wasn’t sure was his friend, was more than he could deal with. It would be too humiliating. 

He’d worked so hard at hiding his attacks, harder than he’d worked at anything, and only Dan had ever seen them, even when they came thick and fast, one on top of another. Now someone who only two weeks ago had called him ‘deaf and brain dead’ was about to see him at his worst and judge him for it. 

“Oh god, I’ve gotta go, gotta get out of here. I’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta go!”

He tried to get away but Dan refused to budge and probably wouldn’t’ve been able to get up from the ground if he wanted to, with his legs still stuck in plaster and then, oh then, Claire appeared in the doorway and looked at him like he didn’t make sense, her fingers intertwined with another woman’s, her smile sliding from her face.

“Dan what’s happened? Are you alright?”

“ ‘m fine,” Dan said softly. “We just had a bit of an episode. Bit of a... thing. But we’re good now. We’re good.”

Jones nodded, knowing that Dan’s words were for him rather than Claire, but he still couldn’t bare to look up. He didn’t want to see anger or annoyance or worse, pity, in brown eyes that looked so much like Dan’s.

“I’m fine,” he said in a small voice, hoping Dan would believe him so that he would let him up so he could get to the bathroom and hide for a bit. “I’m fine.”

But sitting on the kitchen floor, face red and raw, wrapped in the arms of his not-boyfriend, Jones didn’t feel fine. He felt like he was failing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end? I don't even know. I'm just trying to rediscover my writing style and the mystery that is narrative. Thank you for bearing with me and for reading. xx

“Your poor nails,” Pru murmured, turning Jones’ hands over carefully and looking closely at the damage he’d done. “You have such nice fingers, you shouldn’t be biting them.”

“He’s got nice everything,” Dan told her from his chair at the kitchen table, rubbing at his cramped thigh. “He’s my reason for being here and doing this.”

Claire bit her tongue to keep from laughing and the silence that followed that statement was an odd thing. It should have been horribly uncomfortable, and the embarrassment was certainly there, but Dan’s comments had been uncharacteristically sweet, and the sight of Pru, her new girlfriend, sitting on the floor with Jones, speaking gently with him, made Claire smile. It was like they were normal siblings, friends, just hanging out with their respective partners in their home on a normal Friday night.

“That’s sweet, Dan,” Pru told him with a smile, but Claire couldn’t take that level of sugar, not even from her girlfriend, and let out a snort, swinging her legs on her perch on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, Dan. Who knew you were secretly a sweetheart. Just wait ‘til your fanboys find out.”

“Shut up, Claire,” Dan grunted at her.

“Yeah,” Jones added, voice low and eyes still focused on his hands. “Dan doesn’t have to tell people shit if he don’t want to.”

The silence was less friendly after that, and Claire wanted to kick herself. She’d always wanted a proper relationship with her big brother but whenever things approached a loving connection she either ruined the moment with a stupid remark or Dan found a way to ruin it for her. Maybe she was just jealous, she wondered as the silence lengthened. Dan had never said anything sweet about her, not in her life. But then, she realised, she’d never heard him say anything sweet about Jones either. 

She jumped down from the counter and made herself busy filling the kettle and setting it to boil. It was tempting to just leave things, to simply butt out and let her brother do things the way he wanted, but the louder, more stubborn, part of her brain just couldn’t do that. She hadn’t been able to get Jones’ garbled confession out of her head, that he had feelings for Dan, loved him even, and she worried that Dan, being the self-centered twat he was, would take Jones’ affection for granted and use him until he was wrung dry. 

And walking in on Dan and Jones on the floor earlier had been disturbing. She still wasn’t quite sure what had happened but Jones had looked distraught, eyes red and skin mottled and Dan was holding him so tight. And she worried that Dan had done something to hurt Jones, and it frightened her. Trying to distract herself she opened the box of assorted teas she’d brought with her and looked over the selection. She knew that Jones made coffee out of habit, and that Dan hated not having a drink in his hand, and she was gradually filling the kitchen with different kinds of herbal tea in an attempt to give them both a gentler, healthier addiction. She picked out four peppermint bags and popped one in to each cup, telling herself as she did so that she would keep her big mouth shut and butt out. A sentiment that lasted until she turned back to face the others and saw Dan slouched in his chair, arms crossed clumsily, eyes darting about suspiciously as if he were still hallucinating and seeing spiders on the skirting boards.

“I don’t see why you’re so afraid to tell people you’re in a relationship, Dan. I’m in a relationship and I couldn’t be happier.”

Dan glared fiercely but the silence didn’t have a chance to stretch too thin this time.  
“Well that’s just it, ain’t it,” Jones quipped. “You’re in a relationship with a gorgeous woman, worth celebrating, worth cheering from the rooftops. Congrats on that, by the way. But Dan and me, that’s different. I ain’t exactly a looker, and Dan, well...”

He made a face, like he’d just bitten in to a lemon and Pru and Dan both chuckled.

“D’you know,” Pru told him, leaning in with a mischievous grin on her full lips. “Claire and I met back at uni. We were doing the same major and were both active “allies” of the LGBTQ society at the time, both still too far in he closet to even realise we were flirting with each other. Then Claire swapped majors and we didn’t see so much of each other and then-” she shrugged. “We ran in to each other at the hospital the other day, like, literally ran in to each other, and she smiled at me as I fumbled about dropping files all over the place and apologising, and… there were sparks. I can’t not tell everyone I know how happy I am with her. Don’t you think it should be like that?”

Claire watched as Jones turned to look up at Dan, a longing in his eyes that made Claire’s own heart ache, who knew how Jones himself was feeling. Dan, against all odds, didn’t turn away and actually held Jones’ gaze before swallowing carefully and beginning to speak.

“I met Jones at the uni bar,” he told the room at large, though his eyes remained fixed on Jones’. “I saw him dancing and he looked a right tit, but when a girl fell in to him on the dance floor he immediately helped her up and was just kind, sweet, and it just...” Dan pursed his lips. “It just wasn’t the sort of thing I saw a lot. So when he came to the bar I bought him a beer. No sparks.”

“Fuck off, there were,” Jones countered. “I kissed you and you bit my fucking lip.”

“And you moaned like a little slut and asked me if I wanted to split a tub of Raspberry Ripple ice cream with you,” Dan chuckled. 

“Sounds like sparks to me,” said Pru and the three smiled to each other, which should have made Claire happy, to see her girlfriend and her brother and his... boyfriend, enjoying each other’s company, but really only made her feel a little jealous. 

She wanted to push things, she always did, and this time she wanted to push her brother to see what was happening between him and Jones in the here and now, to know that Dan wasn’t taking advantage or hurting Jones, or that Jones wasn’t more messed up than they’d admitted to her, and she hated herself for it. But she didn’t have to worry for long. 

“When you walked in before,” Jones spoke carefully, weighing his words in way Claire hadn’t often seen him do. “When you both walked in, Dan’d just helped me out of a panic attack. He counts me out of them, tells me to breathe. He’s an expert at it, cos I get them just about every day. Sometimes they come at me like beats through a pimped out speaker system, all bass, steady and heavy, you know? Until I don’t know if I’m getting attack after attack or if it’s all just one.” Jones shivered and raised his fingers to his mouth absently, not seeming to notice the taste of the glitter and polish as he bit through it. “Emotional stuff ain’t the only thing we keep to ourselves, is all I’m saying.”

Claire frowned.

“But if you don’t talk about anything how do you know whether the person you fell for still feels the same about you? Sparks are important,” she acknowledged to Pru, “but what about when it’s been a while? You left uni six years ago, Dan. You’ve spent most of that time trying to drink yourself to death and spewing angry bile on to the slimy pages of SugarApe.”

“And?” Dan said gruffly, giving her a dark warning look.

“And,” Claire said, keeping her voice slow and measured. “Had any Raspberry Ripple lately? You want to get healthy? Well it’s harder than you thought and it’s not just giving things up, it’s letting people in.”

She made an immediate mental note to remember that line. It was the kind of nugget of wisdom that producers loved and which she could use to build a documentary or even a film from. But she couldn’t think of that now, because there was a whole different kind of silence in the snug kitchen.

“That was fuckin’ genius, Claire!” Jones grinned at her before turning to Dan and dialing his smile up to blinding. 

Dan smiled, a tentative and elusive thing that Claire didn’t see often, and then his head tilted to the side, like he was looking at the situation in a new way, and the grin changed until it reminded Claire of the cheeky grin she remembered from her childhood, the wolfish grin that always lead their mother to give a preemptive, warning, ‘Daniel?’.

“Fine,” Dan said with a definitive shrug. “Fine. Healthy everything. No booze, no fags, no coffee. Just peppermint tea and truth, is that it?”

He sounded gruff but was still smiling and Claire could see the amusement in his eyes.

“Tea's alright but I could really use some Raspberry Ripple as well,” Jones said thoughtfully and Pru laughed and volunteered to run to the shop and buy some. 

Claire wanted to stay but took the hint in Pru’s raised eyebrow and went out with her for ice cream. Dan and Jones had talking to do and it was as Jones had said, they kept things to themselves.

“You’re wonderful,” Claire told her girlfriend as she pulled the front door shut behind her. “Like, a really, genuine, wonderful person, you know that right?”

“You’re doing pretty well, yourself, you know,” Pru said as she slipped her hand in to Claire’s. “You’ve all been through a tough time, and you’ve done your best but now,” she smiled at Claire in a way that made her chest tighten in the nicest way, “you need to step back and let them do what they need to do. They’re smart enough guys, they’ll get there or they won’t. So it’s time for Claire to look after Claire. Which is why we’ll be buying a tub of Mint Choc Chip as well as the Raspberry Ripple.”

“You know me so well,” Claire grinned, sneaking a look at the woman at her side. “I feel like, I dunno, like I’ve won the lottery, finding you again.”

“I know the feeling,” Pru told her. “You’re not the only one who feels like they’ve won.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dan couldn’t believe they’d made it to four weeks without killing each other, or themselves, but he was suddenly feeling something close to cheerfulness and it had to be because he’d made it so far. He’d never stuck at something so long or so successfully. This was definitely winning.

Jones was sitting in the corner with his headphones on and his music mixer on his lap, moving to a beat that only he could hear but which, from what Dan could see, was a fair bit slower than his former mixes. He’d been a little more settled over the last week, there’d been only one panic attack in the last day and a half, which was a huge improvement. Dan had gone three days since his last attack and while he felt sure that he’d have another, he had an appointment with his doctor in two days, at which he would prove that he’d made good on his promise to give up alcohol and was ready and willing to start anti-anxiety medication. He would also, hopefully, be getting his casts off and he was really looking forward to being a little less useless around the house. 

He was suspicious of course, of actually wanting to do normal, boring, adult things, and of the fact that he was actually starting to wake up without a throbbing head in the mornings, but had been assured that it was a good thing, and that he would get used to it. Most of his good mood could be put down to the lack of alcohol in his system of course, and the fact that his body had finally eased off on the dark moods and insomnia, but Dan was sure that a big part of it was getting in to the habit of telling Jones each day that he loved him. 

It had been hard at first but the look on Jones’ face had been worth it. Jones took that affirmation of love like he’d never heard anyone say it to him before, like it was something magical, and it made Dan want to say it again and again, though mostly, still, within the safety of the House of Jones.

He looked back at Jones, legs crossed on the worn rug, head bopping, eyes half closed and fingers moving over the switches and slides as he created something new and odd and interesting. His nails were still painted glittery red, though several were bitten very low as Jones seemed to have decided the taste wasn’t that bad after all. Claire had been repainting them each week, telling him off for biting them, reminding him that he couldn’t mix anything if he chewed off his own fingers.

Making music had been a sore spot for a while, mostly because music set his usual volume had made Jones' head sore, and he’d been distressed that he’d never create anything again.

“Well what’ve you been listening to then?” Dan’d asked him as they both glared in to their tea cups.

“Eno mostly,” Jones’d sighed.

“Ambient?”

“Mmm.” 

Jones looked so disheartened that Dan pulled him in to a one armed hug, careful not to spill his tea or take Jones’ head out with his cast as he did so. He pressed a kiss to Jones’ hair and rested his head there, feeling Jones relax in to him after a moment, as he let go of the tension.

“So why don’t you give that a try?” he asked. “I’ve seen you work almost every style and genre over the years. Make something you can stand to listen to and then, when you’re feeling up to it, go back to the ear-splitting industrial noise.”

Jones hadn't responded straight away but Dan could tell he was mulling it over. A few hours later he’d sat down with his noise makers and machines, plotting out the beginnings of a new track and a whole new musical direction.

Finding a new direction for Dan hadn’t been quite as easy. Claire had told Barley where he could stick his TV series and his release forms, effectively freeing herself and Dan from the TrashBat hell storm, and Dan had freed himself from Yeah?’s clutches by changing his phone number, deleting his email account and refusing to answer the door or interact with anyone from the SugarApe offices. It had worked. He’d lost his job and all possible sources of income and was still trying to figure out what he could do once he was back on his feet. 

Money was tight for both of them and the one consolation was that there was more money for food when you didn’t have to buy cigarettes, booze or coffee. Dan missed cigarettes. Missed them more than beer right now, but he was stubborn and there were none in the house anyway so he just had to make do with Claire’s ever increasing tea collection instead.

He’d never thought he’d be so grateful to his little sister, or that she would rise to the occasion when he really needed her. It wasn’t that he thought so badly of her, but that he hadn’t believed he was worth the effort. She’d looked at him strangely when he’d thanked her, like she didn’t quite understand what he’d said, so he’d repeated himself and her face when he’d said thank you had been so full of joy that Dan had decided that he needed to get in to the habit of complimenting his sister too.

They still argued of course, they were siblings after all, and Jones and Claire still got on each others nerves, and Dan and Jones still had their moments, when they wanted to ignore their emotions and the world and occasionally each other, but things were definitely better than they once were. Dan wasn’t sure at what point he could consider himself to have won, perhaps it was a life long work-in-progress, but at least he was getting there. And it was much easier to get there when he wasn’t doing it alone.

Dan Ashcroft was winning, and it felt fucking fantastic.


End file.
